The Resignation of Boris Yeltsin: Hetalia Style
by EmilySamara
Summary: In 1999, Russia's first President unexpectedly resigned. Only two men know why. One is a nation, and one sounds like Pladimir Vutin. But now, YOU'LL know too. (Includes an apology to fans of Substitute Teachers.)


**Apology to fans of "Substitute Teachers": My computer (along with my hard drive) are both broken and unsalvageable at the moment. Unfortunately, this means that all my files and stories (inluding the nearly-completed Chapter 19) are gone. It's very difficult to re-write an entire chapter, emotionally and physically, and I'm having a hard time getting started. I'm sorry for the long wait. Please enjoy this short story while you wait for me to recover :(~~EmilySamara**

**EDIT: FUCK. THIS. SITE. Are you actually mentally challenged? Why in the FUCK can't you even get my BOLDS and ITALICS right when I'm trying to recover from devastating technology failure?**

The first President of Russia, Boris Yeltsin, was really more of a curse than a blessing. His entire reign was marked by economic downturns, depression, and general bad ruling. In fact, after his *ahem* resignation in December, 1999, his approval ratings were said to be as low as 2%. Mikhail Gorbachev, former leader of the USSR, actually pleaded with Russian officials not to elect the construction major. But alas, it was not to be.

...Yeah, you probably didn't even read that, it was so boring. Well, how about we spice it up some, shall we? Just why did the fat old potato resign so suddenly on New Year's Eve, 1999?

...

Russia grinned merrily as he trotted across the snowy Kremlin square on his way home. Christmas was coming, and with it, presents and sweets. And one very, very special surprise as well for the people of his country as well.

Slung over his back was a young buck he'd shot on a hunting trip, slowly trickling more and more blood as Russia quickened his pace. A few people glanced at him, but not many. Such was life in Moscow.

Russia slipped into a hidden side entrance of his capital house, whistling as he did so, and stamped his icy boots on the doormat. He slung off his wet gloves and overcoat and replaced them with warm mittens and a sweater, humming along to a song only he knew.

"It has been a long day. Would you like something to eat?" A frightened-looking maid asked him as she gathered his wet clothes.

"Was there a mouse? Or a rat?" The nation replied, widening his eyes.

"I... what?" She laughed once, concerned.

"You seem rather... out of sorts. Did you see a mouse? Should I call someone?"

"I... oh. No, no, no rats." She giggled, twisting pieces of blond hair around her fingers. "Just, ah, cold. Worried, sir."

"Right. Well, off to dinner with you!" Russia sang, dismissing her. The grateful girl bowed and hurried off to the dining hall. Everybody seemed to be worried lately, Russia thought. Everybody he saw looked at him with that strange expression in their eyes, like they were terrified of something. Then again, they had always done that. But it had finally started to get to him. It was nearly the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake! His people needed to cheer up!

And he happened to know exactly what they needed.

Russia hoisted the deer onto his back and lightly stepped upstairs to the living quarters. He quickly deposited the animal in his own room before knocking on the door next to his intended location.

"_Da_?" A cold, commanding voice beckoned him.

Russia peeped through the crack in the door and saw exactly who he'd hoped he'd see-a very short, very slight blond man with icy blue eyes and shadows all across his thin face.

"Good evening, Mr. Putin, sir." Russia bowed lightly to the man.

"Vladimir, please, _Rossiskaya_," the man replied, almost as a reflex, not looking up from his desk. It was clear he was under stress-his normally impeccable desk was cluttered with papers and files, and his eyes had even darker circles under them than usual.

"Hard work, sir?" The nation asked softly.

All the man did was nod. The second-in-line to the presidential chair always kept his reactions, both physical and emotional, to a minimum.

"Shouldn't it be the ruler of a country, sir, who is under so much work?"

Putin shot him a dark glare. "It should, da." He sighed. "However, Mr. Yeltsin is feeling... out of sorts, today."

Russia nodded solemnly, although, somehow, it looked comical. "Too much vodka again. He's not good at holding his liquor, is he?"

Putin's lips pressed into a thin line. Russia sat for a while, then bade him farewell. It was clear that the ex-KGB agent would have no reservations against... the plan.

The tall nation went back to his own room and dragged the dead animal out and into the hallway. Whistling quietly, he opened the door to the Prime Minister's room and lugged the deer inside, then closed and locked the door.

A corpulent, unattractive gray-haired man was lying, half-clothed, on the bed, passed out cold. Russia's ever-present smile widened even more as he gaily set about his task, humming along softly. The man's guttural snores and little smacking noises didn't stop once for the hour-and-some it took Russia to finish his task.

...

Boris Yeltsin, first democratic leader of Russia, opened his eyes and blinked several times before groaning and heaving himself up from his soiled bed. It took a while for his vision to clear up, but when it did, he was met with what he believed was the most repulsive sight he had ever come across in his entire miserable life.

Bits of blood-matted fur and animal gore were smeared all over the walls in sickening patterns that Yeltsin couldn't yet make out in his still-inebriated state. Intestines and other bloody, almost pulsating organs were draped almost artfully over the expensive furniture. Bones tinted in a shade of red lay cracked and broken all over the floor. And there, in the middle of all the commotion, sat the tall man with grayish hair that Yeltsin had always harbored a quiet fear and distaste for.

"Good evening, Mr. Yeltsin," the nation warmly greeted him, stroking the messily severed head of the unfortunate animal. "Did you have a nice rest?"

The big lug of a leader couldn't seem to make his voice work.

"Let me tell you somthing, sir," Russia continued, standing up so that he towered over the now-sniveling man. "Tomorrow, December 31st, 1999, you will resign. Without question, _da_? I will not go into the next century with a schmuck for a leader. Putin will succeed you." Still smiling.

_God in heaven, the man is insane._ "Y-yes... of course. I was... planning..." Yeltsin struggled to extract himself from the sticky covers.

"I don't give a shit what you were planning, you silly man!" Russia clapped his hands in glee. "Resign! Tomorrow! Chop-chop!" He giggled and danced out of the room.

...

In the Prime Minister's room, Vladimir Putin frowned, placing his pen down. He hated to leave his work, but the commotion was unbearable. He sighed, adjusted his crisp shirt collar, and opened the door only to find a drunk, giddy nation covered in blood and what looked to be fur.

"Ah, Vladimir! Didi! What a lovely day is today! And tomorrow! Ah, happy days, happy days for Russia are near!"

And with that, Russia gaily skipped off to his own room, leaving the handsome new Acting President to silently ponder what had just occurred.

**Crackish and historically accurate* all at once! LONG LIVE PUTIN!**

***Note: may not actually be entirely historically accurate.**


End file.
